


Midnight Affirmation

by pentagonbuddy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hallucinations, M/M, Post-Canon, Role Reversal, Trans Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 03:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21237179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy/pseuds/pentagonbuddy
Summary: “Please tell me what you intend,” Dedue says, impassive in his seat.Dimitri adjusts the scarf around his neck so that it drapes over more of his body. “To pay tribute to my liege.”Dedue’s expression shiftsjust enoughto imply doubt. “...From the floor?”Fingers tangled in the laces of his trousers, Dimitri nods. It’s an honest answer, but perhaps not a complete one. While there are a variety of ways he could choose to address certain anxieties, there’s something to be said about ones that are quick, easy, and mutually enjoyable.





	Midnight Affirmation

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Archaeopteryx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archaeopteryx/pseuds/Archaeopteryx) as well as [copingcapricorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copingcapricorn/profile) for lots of help with edits!

As all guards of the royal palace learn, it’s not unusual to stumble on King Dimitri stalking the halls in the still hours of the night, accompanied by little besides a lantern and his shadows. His voice, quiet and often vexed, breathes life into countless ghost stories—even when brimming with what seems like mirth, his whispered laughs can send winter chills down one’s spine in the midst of a balmy summer.

Dimitri has his reasons. Simple ones, truly.

These late-night rounds free him from the confines of his bedroom when his thoughts are dark and overcast. The crisp, vibrant air cuts through the fog, centers him, gives him clarity when ghosts linger by his bedside.

Some nights he worries that the man in his bed is one such ghost. As Dimitri wakes in a flurry of tangled limbs and blankets and bloody dreams, he lunges, slaps his hand against this ghost’s chest. It lands with a mercifully solid _thwak_.

Dedue covers that hand with his own.

Dimitri’s fingers scramble until he feels Dedue’s heartbeat, then curl against his skin. “Sorry for waking you.”

“I was already awake,” Dedue says, voice sluggish and thick.

“...I’m sorry.“

“You were having a nightmare.” Dedue squeezes his hand. “You could not help it.”

Though the room is dark, when he glances upwards he can make out the fuzzy edges of Dedue’s concerned features. A shadow, darker still, hovers above him—Death’s hand stroking Dedue’s hair. No—and the thought is bitter on his tongue—he cannot control them, which is what makes them nightmares. 

“I’d like to go for a walk, if you don’t mind.”

It’s his own suggestion, but he _does_ mind. Not all of his nightmares are gruesome; some are as mundane as suffocating under a pile of paperwork or sleeping through a critical meeting. Both await him in the morning and neither will be easier if he’s sleep-deprived. Even so, it’ll be impossible to sleep with that specter over his beloved.

Dimitri closes his eye to banish it as he listens to Dedue’s steady breaths.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

He looks up at Dedue, his face scrunched into a pout.

“...Dimitri,” Dedue says.

His pout eases into a small smile.

* * *

Truthfully, Dimitri has no destination in mind on these walks. Every now and then a dream or half-forgotten memory will compel him to check somewhere to confirm something or other, but on most nights this happens he lets his body guide itself.

Dedue follows with his lantern, and the specter follows Dedue, flickering every time the light jostles. Such a meddlesome thing.

A bridge connects his chambers to the rest of the castle; he leans against it with crossed arms. From here the castle stretches out below, dark and silent save for patches of torchlight. Guards, restless scholars, servants whose work stretches into late hours—a comforting sight. Sometimes he dreams of being alone in a maze-like distortion of the castle, the only one left alive in all of Fhirdiad.

Dedue makes a small “hm” to announce his presence, then rests a hand on his shoulder.

Dimitri flops against his side. “Just the two of us out here, is it not?”

Dedue’s hand drifts to his back, rubs soothing circles between his shoulder blades. “I believe so.”

So then he doesn’t see the shadow that clings to him. That makes it a pest, not a threat. “Good.”

The open space is...intimidating. It is easy to feel small under the frigid light of the stars, which shine on with no regard for what happens below. For all that people praise Dimitri’s passions, at times, he envies the stars—it seems a convenient way to live, free of unnecessary feelings. But with Dedue at his side, he can’t imagine living any other way, no matter the stress, the anxiety. The pain.

“What is it that bothers you?” Dedue looks down at him with a subtle frown.

“Nothing.” An automatic response, one he amends when Dedue’s frown deepens. “...Nothing worth mentioning.”

“Hm.”

Dimitri steps away with a sigh. “I wish to go elsewhere. The cold is unpleasant.”

His feet carry him across the rest of the bridge, and he knows he is awake because the castle halls connect as they should. They pass a few guards—Dimitri nods at each one—and the sight helps calm his fluttering heart. Dedue touches his shoulder again when he pauses to peer at his own reflection in a suit of armor, distorted yet recognizable, and the specter is absent in the metal. Another comforting sign.

Eventually he finds himself at the entrance to the throne room, the one reserved for the king with a _much_ smaller door. It’s just as intricate as all the other entrances, its lock guarded by a silver gryphon’s paw.

“Allow me,” Dedue says, stepping aside to unlock the door.

Dimitri holds it open for him. “No, no, allow me.”

Dedue’s smile is as subtle as his earlier frown, but to see it at all inspires a much larger grin on Dimitri’s face.

They brush past a thick velvet curtain into the main chamber, cavernous in its size. Despite how large the chamber itself is, he always feels like a giant in here whether he wants to or not. Rainbow-tinted moonlight streams in from stained glass windows. He looks up to Loog, flanked by lions and his dearest companions, who watches over the throne with a lovingly-crafted expression.

The throne itself isn’t all that big: large enough to command attention, small enough to emphasize the one who sits upon it, it rests atop a raised platform at the end of a royal blue rug. Dimitri walks up the platform’s steps, trails his hand along one of the throne’s arms—the stone cold under his touch— then pokes the sharp tip of a feather on the wings that adorn the top. His fingertip comes away sore.

He exhales a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Is there anyone nearby?” he asks, turning to Dedue and their unwanted guest. ”You know the guards’ schedules as well as your garden, no?”

Dedue, still halfway down the steps, rubs his chin, oblivious to the hand that creeps over his shoulder. “Not at this particular hour. There is no need when you are not present.”

Chest tight, Dimitri hurries to look away. Instead, he glances at the jewels that decorate various statues—if only thieves knew they had such a prime opportunity. They’d be much easier to do away with than a spirit, with their flesh and blood and bones that break.

“But I am here now, am I not?” He reaches for Dedue, aches for his solid presence.

Dedue squeezes his hand. “Yes. You are here.”

Yes, he is here. 

“And you are safe with me.” Dedue’s arms wrap around him, sturdier than the castle walls.

Yes, he is safe.

Dimitri inhales the spice-laden scent of Dedue’s scarf. “Forgive me, sometimes it is easy to forget.”

They say nothing more on the matter. Dedue combs patient fingers through his hair, and with his face lost in the folds of Dedue’s scarf, he cannot see what haunts him. Yet as nice as it is to be held, the motion of the petting grows repetitive, and as the silence drags on, it shifts from a comfort to a calm menace.

Such effortless pleasure is...distant, somehow. Like peering into a room through warped glass. Like he’s the being that looms over Dedue’s shoulder and watches him hold this strange blond creature—this man who ought to be a king, who instead clings to Dedue as a sinner to a saint.

Dimitri bites his lip until the pain drags him back, then steps away.

“I am not a child who needs to be coddled after some foolish dream,” he tells the one-eyed shadow.

Dedue says nothing, merely stands there with his arms open for Dimitri to return.

He does not. Instead he walks back up the stairs to the throne, where he rests a clenched fist on one arm. “I am a _king_.”

Ever a shadow in his own way, Dedue comes up behind him and rests a hand on his shoulder.

Dimitri leans into the touch. “It is utterly exhausting to be a king.”

“I’ll do all that I can to help you shoulder the burden.”

It’s such a predictable response that Dimitri can’t help but laugh. No matter how strange things seem at times, Dedue is always at the ready. The shift in focus helps him forget, even if only for a moment, and there’s a devious sparkle in his smile as he turns around.

“Would you take my place?”

Dedue freezes much like a startled deer, wide-eyed and stiff. No, with his size, more like an unusually timid moose.

The thought draws out a smaller laugh. “Just for a little while?”

“I...am not sure how to respond, Your Majesty—”

“Honestly.”

Even the specter stops moving. When it’s clear that Dimitri is willing to wait, Dedue rubs the back of his neck and ducks his head.

“If it were possible...yes.” Though Dimitri had asked with a playful tone, Dedue speaks as if standing on ceremony. “I watch over your meetings, assist in your paperwork, hear your concerns—it truly is an exhausting occupation.”

Dimitri steps away from the throne and looks down to where Dedue stands. “You already do half the work, if you ask me.”

“Even if that were true, it pales in comparison to—”

“You’d make a wonderful king.” He takes one step down. “Kind.” Another. “Gentle, righteous—”

Dedue walks up the steps to meet him halfway. “Dimitri,” he says, clasping his king’s shoulders. “Do not speak ill of yourself through me.”

An apology is born in his throat and dies with a hard swallow. “Let us set aside my title, then, if only for a little while.”

Dedue closes the distances between them, brushes hair behind Dimitri’s ear with his gentle touch. “How do you intend to do that?”

An idea sparks inside Dimitri, warms his heart to consider. He reaches for Dedue’s scarf and tugs at it, pulling until the other man helps him remove it. Now he holds the scarf in his teeth, swats Dedue’s hands away, and then fumbles with the clasps to his own oversized fur cloak until it comes loose. A long sigh escapes him as the weight slips from his shoulders.

Reverence in his touch, he circles Dedue and slides the cloak around him. Dedue fixes the clasp on; Dimitri, however, clutches the Duscur-patterned scarf around himself as a blanket.

“Forgive me for my impropriety, but you are beautiful, _Your Majesty_,” Dimitri says, his voice lowered to a gravelly imitation.

“I am afraid I must draw the line at such titles.” Dedue’s voice rises to match Dimitri’s usual pitch as he walks up the rest of the steps and sets the lantern near the throne. “_Please use my name_.”

The brilliant blue of his—no, of _Dedue’s_—cloak drapes over the golden claws carved into the throne once he sits. He sits much in the same way Dimitri does, stiff and uncertain of the proper posture. Seeing someone else so uncomfortable in it brings a smile to his lips.

There _is_ genuine impropriety to their actions. Loog’s eyes are on them, his stained-glass expression betraying no emotion, while statues of long-forgotten knights stare from around the room. The being that haunts Dedue watches too, though Dimitri tries not to care about what it may think.

Despite the warmth kindling in his chest, the late-night chill permeates the air, stinging his nose and the tips of his ears. He fumbles with the buttons of his sleeping shirt until he exposes his chest; a shiver runs through him where the cold stiffens his nipples. There’s no question of where the sensation comes from.

“Please tell me what you intend,” Dedue says, impassive in his seat.

Dimitri adjusts the scarf around his neck so that it drapes over more of his body. “To pay tribute to my liege.”

Dedue’s expression shifts _just enough_ to imply doubt. “...From the floor?”

Fingers tangled in the laces of his trousers, Dimitri nods. It’s an honest answer, but perhaps not a complete one. While there are a variety of ways he could choose to address certain anxieties, there’s something to be said about ones that are quick, easy, and mutually enjoyable.

“Then I ask that you keep those on.” Dedue sighs at the way Dimitri tilts his head. “For the sake of your knees, if nothing else.”

“Ha! As if that would bother me.”

Another sigh. “Please.”

“Is that a royal edict?” For all his teasing, he kneels with his trousers still on and rests his cheek against Dedue’s thigh. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

Dedue’s hand lands in his hair. Each stroke of his fingers sends pinpricks of pleasure through Dimitri’s scalp. “Merely a humble request.”

His face still pressed against Dedue’s thigh, Dimitri fumbles with the other man’s trousers, tugging at the laces until the hand in his hair squeezes in a reminder to be gentle.

Dimitri sucks in a breath so that he can focus on _properly_ untying, even if his fingers twitch with the urge to tear. Easier. Faster.

There’s much to be said for the slower approach, however. He keeps his head down while he’s busy, but once he’s freed Dedue’s cock he looks up with an even wider grin. Dedue meets his gaze for only a moment before glancing off at something else in the room—Dimitri tries not to think about what else is watching.

_Let it watch_, he insists. There is nothing it can do to stop him.

Instead, he licks his lips and takes hold of Dedue, who shivers at the touch.

Death is still there, still hovers in the fringes of Dimitri’s vision, still flickers behind Dedue with the lantern light. _You will not claim him_, he tells it, _not while I still draw breath_. As he takes Dedue into his mouth, down until he can fit no more, he keeps his eye on the shadow with its own eerie stare.

His ears attend to the soft moan Dedue lets out at his ministrations. It encourages Dimitri to take him in slow, languid movements just as often as fervent bobbing—whenever Dedue grows quiet he changes his pace or adds a flourish of his tongue in an effort to tease out an aria meant only for him.

Dimitri lifts his head. “You sound—” _Beautiful_ is swallowed as Dedue takes him by the hair and shoves him back down. It’s sudden enough to gag him even as arousal throbs between his legs—another undeniable fact about the world. 

Red-faced and panting, Dedue pulls him back up and his breathless apologies echo throughout the chamber.

Coughing, Dimitri silences him with a raised hand. “_Please_ do not apologize for things I enjoy,” he says, “and let me _finish_ unless you intend to come upon my face.”

Dedue _sputters_.

“I’d let you. Only you, King Dedue.” He chuckles at Dedue’s pout—truly a rare expression. “What?” Now he traces an aimless pattern along Dedue’s thigh. ”I used your name.”

The sound Dedue makes when he walks his fingers higher is _divine_.

“Will you punish me?”

And he’ll _never_ tire of that laugh. “Of course not.”

Dimitri kisses the tip of his cock, delighted at how responsive it is. “Such a benevolent king.”

The delight fades into a whine when Dedue lets go of his hair. Dimitri isn’t above groveling, especially from his current position—_it feels good, I like it, you can pull, you know_—and he purrs out a satisfied “good” when the hand returns.

Rather than pull, this time Dedue _pets_ and _strokes_ while Dimitri sucks, and it turns out this is _so much better_ now that his senses have been sharpened.

Each brush of Dedue’s fingers, solid and gentle, radiates warmth from their touch. His breath catches when he presses the tips of his own fingers up between his legs, kindling the heat he finds there.

“_Oh_,” he moans around his mouthful; Dedue answers with a shameless sound of his own.

Dimitri’s fingers catch on his the loops of his own trouser laces—he doesn’t stop to figure out how before he tears them free so that he can shove his hand inside.

Dedue grumbles at the sound of a rip, but whatever admonishment he has is swallowed by another moan. This, too, is a sound Dimitri will never tire of, and so he hums to draw more of them out, stroking himself all the while.

This moment will linger in his thoughts tomorrow when he takes his seat on the throne: Dedue, slack-jawed, face flushed, eyes screwed shut as he bucks into Dimitri’s mouth, filling him with desperate, shallow thrusts.

As much as he’d like to take it all without a fuss, Dimitri coughs until Dedue’s hand fumbles in his hair, pulls him off a second time. Dimitri strains against this, gasping when the blond strands in Dedue’s grip are pulled taut, and hurries to lap at Dedue’s softening cock before anything drips where it shouldn’t.

His knees ache as he rocks against own his fingers now, drinking in the smooth warmth he’s been offered. Even after he’s licked Dedue clean, after something half-heard tries to make it past the racing heartbeat in his ears, he seeks out more.

It’s not enough—the anxiety in his chest smolders when he opens his eye to see Dedue haunted still, Death trying to encroach on someone who makes him feel so _alive_.

_You have no right_, he tells it as he licks his lips in defiance.

He slips his hand out from between his legs and claws at Dedue’s trousers until he exposes enough skin to bite. The muscles there tense; the hand in his hair clenches when he sucks a mark into the spot. _His_ mark, _his_ touch, tangible and protective. A ward against anything that would try to claim Dedue.

This cools the burning in his chest, though the _whine_ Dedue tries to hide sends the fire further down.

“Enough,” Dedue croaks at another warding bite. It registers, distant, but it’s not until Dedue squeezes his shoulder that it sinks in. “_Dimitri_, stop.”

The name draws his eye away from the specter. “...Royal edict?”

“Yes.” Dedue snorts, that small laugh commanding the rest of his attention.

He stands when Dedue motions for him to do so, but what next? The ache between his legs, dull yet persistent, compels him to shift uneasily while one hand skirts the edge of his trousers.

Dedue rubs at one of the marks along his thigh, then waves him over. “Allow me.”

“Hard to believe you can order me around like this,” Dimitri says as he crawls into Dedue’s lap.

“These are not orders.” Dedue wraps his arms around Dimitri’s bare back, pulls him close enough for his nipples to brush against the linen of Dedue’s tunic, sending an ice-hot shiver through him. ”You can say no.”

“Would you order me if I asked you to?”

“Then it would not be an order.” With their bodies so close together, he can feel Dedue’s laugh in his chest as if it were his own.

As important as this philosophical debate is, Dimitri cuts it off with an open-mouthed kiss—Dedue mumbles something about the taste afterwards, only to interrupt Dimitri’s breathless apology with another kiss.

All the while, Dedue’s hands slide along his back, tracing scars and spreading warmth wherever they touch.

“Aren’t you cold? Surely my scarf is not warm enough.”

“_My_ scarf,” Dimitri corrects. “And the cold helps.”

Dedue’s hands slow, then slip away.

Just as Dimiri grumbles about it, he cuts himself off with a gasp when Dedue turns him around. This new position is frustrating in some ways—he has to crane his head at an awkward angle to kiss Dedue—even as it warms his entire back. Dedue’s thigh fits so easily between his legs, makes it simple to roll his hips back and forth against it.

“Helps,” Dedue mimics, though his voice is far more sluggish. “Helps what?”

“_You_ know.”

“Hm.” A disapproving tone, as if Dedue didn’t know the reason for their walk from the moment they woke up. If he truly disapproved, then this was a cruel time to bring it up.

“Do not ‘_hm_’ me now.” Dimitri stills his hips. “I—I want them to know. That I can enjoy, _live_—”

“Please do not tell me you see your—”

“_Goddess_ no.” The thought of _any_ familiar faces right now just about freezes the blood in his veins. If they carry on with this line of talk, will the shadow around Dedue shift into something worse? Best not to find out. ”Now will you touch me, or must I do so myself?”

“Is that an order?” Dedue wraps strong arms around Dimitri’s waist, the tips of his fingers rubbing circles along his hip bones.

Dimitri huffs. “No, royal edict.”

One hand slides between his thighs, so close to where he wants it, yet so frustratingly far away. “I thought I was the king…?”

“_Please_, Dedue.” He grabs one of Dedue’s wrists and squeezes.

Does Dedue enjoy hearing a king beg for his touch? After all, this is what gets him to finally slip his hand into his trousers, sliding the entirety of his palm up and down between Dimitri’s legs. It sends a delicious ache through him—he gasps out a demand for more when Dedue shifts the pressure to his fingers, rubbing them side-to-side and up-and-down, slower whenever Dimitri grows too loud.

Dedue’s other hand remains securely around his waist, stifling how much he can grind against that fiendish touch, so eager to tease while denying him relief.

“You—” Dimitri moans, “—are a _tyrant_.”

Dedue laughs into his hair, presses kisses against his neck. The arm around his waist loosens as Dedue reaches for one of his hands and threads their fingers together—Dimitri’s immediate response is to squeeze.

His grip tightens when Dedue spreads him open with his index and ring fingers, only to use his middle one to stroke torturous circles around the most sensitive part of his body. It’s all Dimitri can focus on: the visions that haunt him vanish when he closes his eyes, his ears are filled with the sound of his own ragged voice and Dedue’s hot breath, and pleasure radiates from the tip of Dedue’s finger, up throughout his body, winds itself tighter and tighter as he speeds up his movements—

“Will you come if I order you to, Dimitri?”

Regardless of whether or not he has permission, Dimitri’s hips tremble as he writhes under Dedue’s touch, which remains gentle yet relentless while he comes apart underneath it. Even as the pleasure fades, Dedue continues to rub until Dimitri, nearly sobbing, tells him to stop—yet when he starts to remove his hand, Dimitri holds him in place.

“You’re warm,” he breathes, head lolling to one side. “So warm.”

Dedue says nothing, merely kisses his neck again and squeezes their still-joined hands. Dimitri’s cheeks are warm, too, and wet with all the emotions he can never seem to name after sex, but it feels good to let out when Dedue is there to hold him through it.

Towards the end of this Dedue unlinks their hands, takes the edge of his shawl, and wipes away Dimitri’s tears. This, of course, inspires more, and Dimitri tugs the hand from his trousers so that he can turn around in Dedue’s lap. Sloppy as his kisses are, Dedue meets them one after another against his lips, his damp cheeks, and feather-light against his closed eyes.

It’d be so easy to fall asleep on his throne like this. Let the guards or some dutiful servants find them, and what is there to fear from the talk it’d inspire? He has nothing to be afraid of. Heavy as his eyelids are, Dimitri lifts them long enough to look past Dedue and at the formless malice that surrounds him.

He smiles at it.

...The sight still sends a pang of anxiety through his heart.

No matter; he buries his head into Dedue’s neck. That same earthy smell as before envelops him in much the same way as Dedue’s arms, reminds him where he is and who he is with. Most importantly, it reminds him that they are safe.

“Will you be able to sleep if we return to your quarters?” Dedue asks, his voice still husky.

“I’d be willing to try.” Dimitri closes his eye to enjoy the sound “...In a bit.”

“You were right,” Dedue mutters into his hair. “It is exhausting to be king.”

He laughs. “Thank goodness I have you to help.”


End file.
